


Love's Greatest Killer

by WashIsBoss



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Pre-Canon, Sweet James, Understanding James, anxious percival, m16 percival, merlin so far just mentioned, pre-kingsman percival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:56:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WashIsBoss/pseuds/WashIsBoss
Summary: Going on a date with James Spencer, of Kingsman, was a foolish idea. Going on a date at all was a foolish thought. But James? James, the Lancelot, Spencer. Alistair knew, he /knew/, that it would end in only heartbreak. For both of them. He knew, he /knew/, that there was nothing he could do. Either be cold and heartless, or a complete mess, and neither were the type of man James Spencer wanted to love. Alistair knew all of that. So why was he knocking on the man's door anyway?





	Love's Greatest Killer

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very short snippit of a fic I want to write, but I'm not sure if it's really even a good thought. So this is my test run, please let me know what you think I'd /love/ to hear it. I fell in love with this James personality of the protective, understanding and caring lover, alongside the boisterous and extreme agent he's usually portrayed as. It thought it was a good contrast. I also really love the idea of the agents truly been different people than their off-duty counterparts. Like properly compartmentalized.
> 
> Percival isn't a Kingsman yet, in this, he's an M16 agent. They met on a joint mission. That might come out alter, we'll see. I just wanted to clarify for now.
> 
> The title was inspired by this quote (“Anxiety is love’s greatest killer. It makes others feel as you might when a drowning man holds on to you. You want to save him, but you know he will strangle you with his panic.” ― Anaïs Nin). Which is totally heartbreaking and I promise the story will be a heck of a lot happier than that implies.

When the door opened to the unfamiliar home, Alistair’s heart stopped. For several long moments following the appearance of the younger, sister organization’s agent, he could swear it did not beat. Then James Spencer, a.k.a Lancelot of Kingsman, beamed a smile so wide it could blind and spoke. His voice bright as the setting sun. "Come on in!" Came the man’s voice. Alistair only heistant for a moment before he followed the instruction. Tripping slightly on the front doorstep, as he let himself fall inside. Let the door close behind him. "I can take your coat, and you may leave your shoes just there, by the door. I’m just finishing up dinner now.”

Dinner. Right. Alistair raised his eyes from they’re panicked assessment of the surroundings, to find James’ face. The smile was still there. The kindness in his eyes. Allowing his mind to halt it’s reeling, Alistair responded with a smile in like. Not as wide, and handsome - his own small and secret - but a smile nonetheless. “Please-- yes thank you.” He responded. His coat shuffling down his arms and being whisked away by his eager host. He forced his eyes downwards as he toed off his shoes, taking in the room without having to look at it. 

Warmth. There was a fire going, he could hear the crackle. Log fire, from the sound of it, but no smell - so perhaps just a good fake. Though there was a scent, distinct from the usual household smells, faint burning. Distant. As if James’ first attempt at cooking had been fatal, and he had tried to air out the space since then. Interesting. Nerves? James claimed to be a good cook--

“How was your day, Alistair? Since I last saw you that is.” 

James’ voice ripped him from his analysis. His eyes snapping upward, but the panic in them fading quickly. James had moved - how had he not noticed - from the foyer, through the open living room, to the kitchen far on the other side. He was smiling, from over a large pot - the risotto he’d promised, and waiting on a response. 

Stepping fully away from his shoes, Alistair brushed his hands along the front of his button down shirt as a distraction for his mind, before responding. “Uneventful.” Which was hardly helpful. A moment more of consideration and he regretfully added, “I mostly slept.” 

It seemed that James hardly minded his closed off response. The man’s smile never faltering as he listened. He seemed to dance from the stove to the fridge, to the cutting board, to the cupboard. Every moment graceful and effortless. Alistair envied him. “Well-” James began cheerfully. “I managed to snag a date with this very handsome M16 agent, so I am doing quite delightful.” The man finally removed the food from the heat and with the two bowls he’d gathered he began to serve. “May I interest you in a gin and tonic?” 

The immediate shake of his head, Alistair realized, was likely rude. He followed it up, after determining so, with a cough and a strained, “I don’t drink, thank you.” A few careful steps further into the space caused the nearby dining room to appear. Small, and slightly more closed off from the rest of the house. Though it had a large window facing the front of the house, and it was brightly lit with a fancy chandelier akin to James’ own dazzling personality. Extravagance. “And thank you for-- cooking. For me. It’s very kind.” He offered as an addition. James truly had done quite some work simply to feed him, and none of it was necessary.

When Alistair looked away from the dining room, James was no longer in the kitchen. He had instead glided out to the living room, and was brushing past him when he responded, “Oh now, I adore cooking. And I don’t often get a chance to cook for two.” Alistair followed the man’s movements to the dining room again, where two bowls were placed at opposite sides of a dark wood square table. James turning round again to add, “Thank you for allowing me the pleasure of your delightful company.” Again that dazzling smile, or had it ever left. James approached him, and the man’s hand hovered at his hip. But it did not touch. “Go sit. I’ll grab some drinks, and be right there.”

The instruction was a relief, Alistair finding his way to one end of the table - if it was the end facing the door that was irrelevant for sure. He had to confess he was shocked by James’ restraint. The man had seemed far more bold, far more presumptive, in their small amount of time working together. The type who would touch and expect his touch to be well received. Perhaps, he noted, that was Lancelot. Not James. Similar, but not nearly as brash It was a lovely thought. That tonight might just go better than anticipated. Alistair allowed a small guarded smile, at the idea of it, just as James moved back into the room -placing two cups of water down - and took a seat himself.

“Bon Appetit.” The man offered, in a poor french accent, and a wink.


End file.
